Chapter 3
The voice came from my right. I turned. The man with the whiskey was finally looking at me. Up close he was older than I'd first thought, maybe early forties, with a pale scar near his chin and eyes so steady they made lying feel impossible.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
He glanced once toward the hallway Darren had disappeared down, then back at me. "That was not a social question," he said quietly. "It was a yes or no question."
Every instinct Darren had built into me screamed not to trust strangers, not to make a scene. But another instinct, one I thought I'd lost somewhere in the last eleven months, pushed through the fear. I shook my head. Just once.
His jaw tightened, almost invisibly. He set down his whiskey with exquisite care, no rush, no theatrics, just the small deliberate motion of a man making a decision he would not revisit.
"What is his name?" he asked.
I should not have answered. I knew that. Yet something about the way he asked made it sound less like curiosity and more like confirmation already being filled in.
"Darren Cole," I whispered.
Something changed in the man's face. Not surprise. Recognition. He leaned back slightly, eyes going colder than the whiskey in his glass, and gave one almost imperceptible nod, like a final piece had just slid into place.
A waiter appeared at his shoulder out of nowhere and murmured, "Mr. DeLuca, should I call downstairs?"
He never took his eyes off the hallway. "No," he said softly. "Not yet."
May you like
My blood turned to ice, because Darren had told me once, during one of his half-drunk bragging monologues, that there were only two men in Chicago he would never cross, and one of them was named Nico DeLuca.
Then Darren started back toward the table, smiling like he still owned the next hour of my life, adjusting his cufflink, glancing at his reflection in the dark restaurant window on his way past. He didn't notice Nico rising from his own seat until it was already too late to pretend he hadn't.
